Under the Eye of the Revolution
by Mlle Patria
Summary: Jehan Prouvaire thinks on Enjolras's execution of Le Cabuc and Combeferre comforts the poet.


**Author's Note: Hey guys, I'm alive! Real life caught up with me for awhile, but I'm done with high school now and plan to finish more stories soon. A special thanks to my betas tym4change and music596.**

**Disclaimer: I (unfortunately) do not own these characters nor most of Enjolras's dialogue. Those are Hugo's. :(**

The shot startled Jehan, causing him to drop one of the paving stones they had torn up, leaving a nasty gash across his palm. His eyes darted about the area, attempting to find the source of the first shot of the émeute. The scene his eyes rested on made his stomach drop.

The large house toward the rear of the barricade had a single candle flickering in a window, three stories up, which illuminated the corpse of an old man whose body half rested upon the sill. In the street below a gruff, stocky porter held a rifle. As Jehan watched, the candle fell with a clatter to the street below and extinguished itself. All that was left was a thin wisp of white smoke rising skyward.

"That's it!" cried the porter and instantly Enjolras pounced on his shoulder, grabbing his shirt and braces in one hand and pressing a pistol to the man's temple with the other.

"On your knees," he ordered in a voice as decisive as Themis declaring judgment.

Jehan watched, horrified by the scene before him, but felt himself moving forward with the rest of the crowd. They eventually formed a circle around the two men and watched as the porter blubbered and begged for mercy. Jehan's heart went out to the man. Although the man had committed an atrocious crime and Jehan knew that punishment was necessary, he still hated to see a fellow human being in distress.

"You have one minute," Enjolras informed the man calmly, oblivious to the sobs and wails, "pray or think."

The minute seemed to go slowly for Jehan who watched the man's whimpered pleas for mercy and hasty prayers for absolution, along with the calm, unchanging face of Enjolras as he watched the seconds tick by on his watch. Several of the men turned away, unwilling to witness the gruesome scene that was sure to come. Others looked uneasy at the thought of killing a man unable to defend himself, but none voiced this opinion. Jehan himself felt conflicted. He considered himself a romantic and a lover of people in general. However, he knew that what the man did was inexcusable and must be dealt with accordingly. Although he agreed with what was to happen, he hated it all the same.

Jehan started as he felt a gentle hand press against his. Tearing his eyes away from the pitiful scene before him he found that Combeferre, sensing his distress, had made his way through the crowd to stand next to him. For this Jehan was grateful. If anyone could help him make sense of the tumult of emotions currently fighting through his mind it was calm, sensible Combeferre.

The click of Enjolras closing his watch drew Jehan's attention back to the spectacle in front of him. He watched as Enjolras replaced his watch in his pocket and wondered how he could be so calm knowing what he was about to do. Jehan's own heart drummed violently in his chest, but he refused to look away. It was necessary, he told himself, for the republic. If they hoped to achieve a better world, sacrifices had to be made. However, as the man began to writhe and wail Jehan had to bite his lip to keep from crying out and asking Enjolras to please just stop.

Combeferre squeezed his hand tighter as Enjolras once again held the pistol to the porter's head and this time pulled the trigger. The shot echoed through the street, as did the muffled thud as the body fell. Jehan stood frozen in amazement as Enjolras pushed the body away from himself with his foot. Silence reigned through the street and Jehan could do nothing but gape at the shattered skull and the bloody body lay twitching in the street.

"Throw that outside," Enjolras ordered and three men obliged, though the body still convulsed with the last mechanical movements of life.

"How I wish there had been another way," Jehan confided in Combeferre quietly as he leaned in closer.

"I'm afraid there was not, Jehan," Combeferre answered somberly, "Even in revolution there must be order. We cannot have our men killing innocent people. That is not progress; it is anarchy."

Jehan nodded, but added, "Although necessary, it remains tragic. Did we even know his name?"

"I'm afraid not," Combeferre admitted and the two lapsed into a contemplative silence. It was then that Enjolras decided to speak.

"Citizens," he began, his voice clear and strong despite the awful deed he had just committed, "What that man did is horrible, and what I have done is terrible. He killed, and that is why I killed him. I was forced to do it, for the insurrection must have its discipline. Assassination is still greater a crime here than elsewhere; we are under the eye of the revolution, we are the priests of the republic, we are the sacramental hosts of duty, and none must be able to calumniate our combat."

Jehan gazed upon Enjolras with admiration for the man's unwavering commitment to his ideals. Enjolras could so easily see the glory of the future and make those around him see it too. Yet, Jehan also pitied the man, for he knew Enjolras wasn't heartless. He loved all people just as much as Jehan, though in a less expressive way, and yet he had been forced to commit a horrendous crime, to kill a man, in order for those ideals to live.

"I therefore judged and condemned that man to death," Enjolras continued, "As for myself, compelled to do what I have done, but abhorring it, I have judged myself also, and you will soon see to what I have sentenced myself."

"We shall share your fate!" Combeferre declared, and Jehan silently nodded beside him.

At the time Jehan did not know that he would not share Enjolras's fate on the barricade, fighting until the last for freedom and justice. He would instead share the fate of the porter, but with hands bound and a pistol pressed to his head he would not whimper and wail. When asked for his last words he would proudly declare, "Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!" and once that final act of defiance was committed, the shot would ring out, and he would fall. He would not die a coward, nor would he beg for mercy. He would stand strong, chin raised and greet death warmly, for he was not a flippant, foolish young boy, as many thought. He was a priest of the republic and he was under the eye of the revolution.


End file.
